The battlefield stretched before Ronon, a sea of chaos and destruction. The once-thriving plains were now scorched earth, littered with the bodies of the fallen and the remnants of broken banners fluttering in the wind. In the distance, the towering spires of Lormund stood defiant against the horizon, a last beacon of hope for the kingdom. But the city's defenses were crumbling, and the Circle of Shadows was closing in.
"We can't hold them off much longer," Jorin said grimly, standing beside Ronon atop the ridge. His face was smeared with dirt and blood, his armor dented and battered from hours of fighting.
Ronon scanned the battlefield, his heart heavy with the weight of what was to come. Their forces were outnumbered, outmatched by the sheer ferocity and numbers of the Circle's army. Even with the Hollow King defeated, the Circle's generals pressed on, determined to crush Lormund and bring the kingdom to its knees.
"We don't have a choice," Ronon replied, his voice resolute. "This is our last stand. If we fall here, the capital will be next. The entire kingdom will burn."
Kellan approached, his expression hardened by the harsh reality of war. "The southern flank is holding, but barely. We've lost too many men. If the Circle pushes again, we'll be overrun."
Ronon clenched his fists. He could feel the exhaustion creeping into his bones, but there was no room for weakness. Not now. Not when so much was at stake.
"We'll make our stand here," Ronon said, turning to face his companions. "If we can hold this ridge, we might buy the city enough time to reinforce its walls. We have to keep fighting."
Jorin nodded, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "And what if we can't?"
"Then we die fighting," Ronon answered firmly. "But we won't go down without a fight."
The wind picked up, carrying with it the sound of battle—the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded, the thunderous roar of magic unleashed in the distance. The Circle's forces were advancing again, their black-armored soldiers marching in disciplined ranks, flanked by towering war beasts and sorcerers casting deadly spells.
Ronon turned to his troops, a ragtag group of soldiers, mercenaries, and survivors of the siege. Their faces were lined with fatigue, their eyes filled with the same grim determination that fueled Ronon himself.
"Listen up!" Ronon shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "We're the last line of defense. If we fall, Lormund falls. But if we stand together—if we fight with everything we have—we can stop them. We can protect the kingdom. We can protect our home."
The men and women around him tightened their grips on their weapons, their resolve hardening in the face of overwhelming odds. They knew the chances of survival were slim, but none of them hesitated. They were fighting for more than just victory. They were fighting for the future of the kingdom.
Ronon drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the fading light of the sun. "For Lormund!" he cried, raising his weapon high.
"For Lormund!" the soldiers echoed, their voices rising in unison, a defiant roar against the approaching darkness.
The ground trembled as the Circle's army advanced, their war cries filling the air. Ronon stood at the front of his forces, his heart pounding in his chest as the enemy closed in. This was it. The moment everything had led to. There was no turning back.
"Hold the line!" Ronon shouted, his voice carrying over the battlefield.
The two armies collided with a deafening crash, steel meeting steel in a violent storm of blood and fury. Ronon fought with everything he had, his sword flashing through the air as he cut down one enemy after another. Beside him, Kellan and Jorin fought just as fiercely, their blades slicing through the ranks of the Circle's soldiers.
But for every foe they felled, more took their place. The Circle's army seemed endless, a relentless tide of darkness sweeping over them. Ronon could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the exhaustion threatening to overtake him with every swing of his sword.
Still, he fought on, driven by the knowledge that this was their only chance. If they failed here, there would be no one left to stand against the Circle's onslaught.
A blast of dark magic exploded nearby, throwing Ronon to the ground. He groaned, pain shooting through his body as he struggled to rise. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he saw a figure approaching—a Circle commander, clad in blackened armor, his eyes burning with malevolent power.
"You are finished, Ronon Atreus," the commander sneered, raising his blade for the killing blow.
Ronon's grip tightened on his sword, his breath ragged. "Not yet," he growled.
With a surge of adrenaline, Ronon rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. In one swift motion, he rose to his feet and plunged his sword into the commander's chest. The man's eyes widened in shock before he collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
Ronon stood over the body, his chest heaving with exertion. The battle raged on around him, but in that moment, he knew one thing for certain:
The final stand had begun.